Sticky Wickets
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Sequel to "Suburban Life." Nick and Nat take part in a neighborhood block party, and all is well until Nick's "relatives" show up...


Sticky Wickets  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) December 1996  
  
  
Well, here it is Christmas time, and everyone is posting  
lovely Christmas stories.  
  
So what do I do? Send one out that's set in July!  
  
My thanks to my beta readers Amber and Jules, who provided  
me with very helpful feedback and plenty of encouraging  
words. {{{{{{{{{{{{{hugs}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}  
  
In my little fiction world, the third season never  
happened, and NDNED (nobody dies, nobody EVER dies!). Nick  
has become mortal and turned into a typical suburban  
commuter with a slightly larger world experience. "Sticky  
Wicket" is more or less a sequel to my first story,  
"Suburban Life."  
  
One explanatory note--a "roquet" happens when one croquet  
ball hits another. Don't worry--you'll see where it fits  
in.   
  
Permission to archive this little bit of fluff on the FTP  
site and Mel Moser's wonderful fiction page is gladly  
given.  
  
And now, on with the show...  
  
Sticky Wickets  
by Nancy Kaminski  
December 1996  
  
  
  
Monday Evening  
  
"Nat, what's a block party?" Nick examined the fluorescent  
green flyer that had been stuck in their front door as he  
walked slowly towards the kitchen, a bag of groceries in  
his arms.  
  
"Oh, neat, are we having a block party?" Nat, holding seven  
month-old Michelle and the large canvas satchel stuffed  
with baby things, expertly bumped the door shut with her  
hip. "When is it?"  
  
"Next Saturday." Nick deposited the groceries on the  
kitchen table and read aloud. "Block Party! July 13!  
Softball, volleyball, croquet! Keg provided. Bring lawn  
chairs, grills, munchies to share and something to cook!  
Party Central--the Larsons' Backyard!" He held up the flyer  
for Nat to see. It was decorated with a clipart cartoon of  
a man wearing an apron and standing over a smoking barbecue  
grill and was printed with a large assortment of type  
styles. "So, what exactly is a block party?"  
  
Nat gently disentangled the baby's fist from her hair.  
"It's exactly what it sounds like--it's a neighborhood  
party. All the families on a block get together and have a  
cookout in someone's yard, play games and socialize. We had  
them once a summer when I was a kid. We'd block off the  
street at each corner so we could play softball in the  
street. Us kids would run all over until way after dark.  
It's fun." Nat bounced the baby up and down a few times and  
cooed, "Ready for supper already, Pumpkin? Let Mummy and  
Daddy get out of their work clothes, okay?" Michelle  
burbled in agreement. "Who's organizing it?"  
  
"It says here to call Marge Larson for details." Nick put  
the flyer on the counter and started putting the groceries  
in the fridge.  
  
Nat deposited the baby in her playpen. "I'll have to find  
out what she wants us to bring."  
  
Nick straightened up from the fruit bin and thoughtfully  
tossed an apple from one hand to the other. He looked at  
Nat, an embarrassed expression on his face. "You know, I  
don't know how to play softball, or volleyball for that  
matter."   
  
"You don't? Haven't you ever played? I know you follow  
baseball, and I've seen you watch those California beach  
volleyball matches on TV--the ones with the girls in the  
little bikinis."  
  
"Yeah, well, I've just watched. Vampires aren't especially  
into team sports." Nick paused--he had a sudden vision of  
Lacroix wearing a tee-shirt with a CERK logo on it,  
pitching underhanded and glaring ferociously at a hapless  
batter. He shuddered. "And these last two years I've had  
other things on my mind, like you and Michelle." Nick  
leaned over the playpen and tickled his daughter. She  
squealed in delight and grabbed his hand. "I know the  
rules, but I've never actually played."  
  
Nat laughed and patted him on the back. "Well, don't  
worry--it's not exactly professional level. Anyway,  
everyone usually drinks so much beer the quality of the  
game goes way down real fast. No one will notice you're a  
rookie." Nat's stomach rumbled. "Now get going, buddy--it's  
your turn to cook dinner and I'm hungry. What're we  
having?"  
  
"Pepper steak and home fries sound okay?"  
  
Nat sighed. "Yum. I'm so glad I taught you to cook. Among  
other things."  
  
Nick kissed her and patted her on the rump. "You go get  
changed. I'll keep an eye on the baby and start dinner.  
Here--take my jacket upstairs, will you?" Nick took off his  
jacket and handed it to her.  
  
"Gonna take off your gun, too, or do you have to shoot the  
peppers before you cook 'em?" Nat held out her hand as Nick  
shrugged out of his shoulder holster and handed it to her  
with a grin.  
  
"Nope, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I kill all my  
vegetables with a knife." He rolled up his sleeves and  
started rattling around in the kitchen drawers.  
  
Nat groaned theatrically and headed upstairs to change.  
"803 years old and this is the level of humor I get..."  
  
  
  
Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and Nick  
had done some yard work, he and Nat settled down to a  
boring but satisfying evening of newspapers and sitcoms.  
Nat was half-watching TV and going through the day's mail  
when she remembered the upcoming block party.  
  
"Darn, I forgot to call Marge." She looked at her watch.  
"It's only 9:30--it's not too late." She dialed the number  
on the flyer, reading it over again while she waited for it  
to be answered. "Hello, Marge? It's Natalie... Yes, we got  
the flyer. Sounds great! What should we bring?...uh-huh, I  
can do that...yes, he's here..." She looked up. "Nick,  
Marge wants to talk to you."  
  
"Hmmmm? What about?"  
  
"She says there's something you can do for the party."  
  
Nick felt a twinge of apprehension--Marge was a 50ish,  
birdlike little woman with an incredible amount of energy  
who overwhelmed nearly everyone except her phlegmatic  
husband, Chet. She could get anyone to do anything, even if  
you did it just to get her to leave you alone. He put down  
the paper and took the receiver from Nat, who was laughing  
silently at the look on his face.  
  
"Hi, Marge. What can I do for you?" he made a face at Nat.  
  
"Nick, hi! How are you?" Marge greeted him is her  
high-pitched, perky voice.  
  
"Just fine, Marge. What's up?"  
  
"Well, there's something you can do for the party. We need  
to arrange for barricades to block off the street. Can you  
go down to the police department and get them? And you  
know, get the permit to block the street and stuff? I  
figured it would be easy, you being a cop and all."  
  
Nick looked dubious but felt a certain amount of relief. At  
least it wasn't something embarrassing, like that  
Tupperware party last winter. "Uh, I guess I can do that.  
It's a little out of my bailiwick, but..."  
  
"Oh, thank you, dear! They usually have the city  
maintenance truck drop them off on the morning of the party  
and pick them up the next day...ask them if they'll do that  
again."  
  
"You've done this before?"  
  
"Sure. Oh, that's right--the last block party was two years  
ago, before you and Nat moved in."  
  
"Oh. Well, okay, I'll see to it this week. Here's Nat  
again."  
  
At Nat's inquiring expression, Nick held the phone against  
his chest and whispered "Getting barricades for the  
street." He handed the phone back to Nat.  
  
"Don't worry, Marge. I'll make sure he takes care of it.  
Now, is there anything else...?"  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
  
  
Sticky Wickets, Part 02/03  
by Nancy Kaminski  
  
Wednesday After Work  
  
Nick actually remembered to go down to the suburban  
police department without being reminded. (Although  
he claimed he still had his perfect vampire memory,  
like any man he conveniently forgot things when it  
suited him.) The tiny police department boasted six  
officers and two squad cars. When Nick paid them a  
visit after work, a lone officer was sitting behind  
the front desk, carefully tapping at a computer and  
swearing softly to himself. Nick cleared his throat.  
"Excuse me."  
  
The officer, a rumpled man in his thirties, looked up  
with a frustrated expression. "Do you know anything  
about WordPerfect? We just got some new software and  
damned if I can get it to work. Look--the text went  
all screwy." He gestured at the screen, where indeed  
there was a line of normal looking text followed by  
lines that were italicized, bolded and of varying  
sizes. It appeared to be an arrest report for  
shoplifting. Ah yes, Nick thought. Crime in the  
suburbs.  
  
"Sorry, no." Nick wasn't going to get sucked into that  
one. He'd spent hours with Schanke arguing how to make  
their own word processor behave, only to have Sergeant  
Miller come over, press a function key to solve the  
problem, and walk away with a smirk on her face. Better  
to stick to business. "I was wondering if you could help  
me get a block party permit? I live on the 3300 block  
of Oakdale Street."  
  
The officer's face brightened. "Oh, Marge Larson,  
right?"  
  
"Yeah, how did you know?"  
  
"We all know Marge. She brings us cookies at Christmas."  
At Nick's raised eyebrow he explained, "It's not like  
it's a bribe or anything. She brings stuff to the library  
staff, the fire department and town hall, too. I guess  
she just likes public servants."  
  
This was a side of Marge Nick didn't know about. He had  
sampled her cookies (the only good thing at the ill-fated  
Tupperware party), and in his considered opinion they  
were works of art. Maybe he could remind her what he and  
Nat did for a living...he brought his thoughts back to the  
task at hand.  
  
"How about the the permit and the barricades? What do we  
need to do?"  
  
"You don't need a permit. Just let us know when you want  
the barricades, and Chuck--he's the maintenance foreman--  
will drop them off."  
  
Nick gave him the details and left with the assurance that  
two orange-striped barricades would be delivered to his  
yard on Saturday morning.  
  
  
  
Saturday Morning  
  
The day of the block party dawned clear and warm. At six  
in the morning, a loud rumbling and then the backing-up  
'beep beep beep' noise of a truck in reverse was heard in  
front of the Knight household. Nick (who, to Nat's disgust,  
had turned out to be very much of a morning person) was  
already up. He went outside, coffee mug in hand, to see  
what the ruckus was about.  
  
It proved to be a large, orange city dump truck driven  
by a burly man--Chuck, Nick surmised--in greasy coveralls.  
Without a word, he hopped out, climbed into the bed of the  
truck and proceeded to throw two 20-foot planks and four  
sawhorse-like leg assemblies onto Nick's front lawn.  
The planks had "Closed to Thru Traffic. Do Not Enter"  
emblazoned on them in large black letters.  
  
Chuck scowled at Nick. "Have 'em there on Monday morning.  
Early! And don't bring 'em back broken!" he barked. Without  
a backward glance, he got back into the truck and drove  
away.  
  
Standing there in his pajamas with a pile of orange, black  
and white lumber at his bare feet, Nick watched the truck  
rumble away and turn the corner. "I bet Maintenance isn't  
on Marge's cookie distribution list," Nick mused.  
  
  
The pleasant, bright summer day proceeded as all suburban  
Saturdays seemed to. Up and down the block, people were  
cleaning house, running errands, washing cars, and  
generally puttering around.  
  
Nick spent a frustrating two hours trying to get his  
inherited lawn mower to start. The lawn, and by extension,  
the lawn mower, were Nick's particular obsessions. The lawn  
had been a disaster area when he and Nat had bought the  
house, but now it was a weed-free, velvety expanse of green  
(and currently somewhat in need of a haircut). He finally  
gave it up as a bad job and borrowed his next-door  
neighbor's in order to bring the grass under control again.  
  
When he came in for lunch, he was still fuming about the  
recalcitrant machine. "It's a lousy two-stroke engine. It  
should be running like a top after all I've done for it!"  
he complained to Nat. She was unimpressed.  
  
"Dear," she said patiently, "its time has come. It has gone  
where all good little lawn mowers go when they die, and all  
the attention in the world isn't going to resurrect it. Go  
out and buy a new one. It's not like we have to fit it into  
the budget or anything."  
  
"It's the principle of the thing," Nick said mulishly. "It  
should work. I'm going to go talk to that repair guy down  
at the hardware store after lunch."  
  
Nat saw an opening and dived in. "Well, if you're going  
out, will you please stop by JiffySnip and get your hair  
cut?" she asked. "You're about three weeks overdue, and  
it's been a bad hair day for the last week, if not longer.  
I don't understand how you don't notice."  
  
"I thought it was okay," Nick replied, craning his head to  
see his reflection in the toaster on the counter. He  
smoothed down his hair, which promptly sprang up in several  
different directions.  
  
"Maybe for the year 1500, but for 1996 Toronto it's a  
fashion 'no.' If you don't take care of it, I'll get the  
scissors out and do it myself when you're sleeping. Then  
you'll be sorry."  
  
"Oh, all right. But I'm talking to the repair guy first."  
  
  
  
Saturday Afternoon  
  
Accordingly, after lunch, Nick took off (incidentally  
leaving Nat with both the dishes and the baby) and had an  
unproductive chat with the repairman at the hardware store.  
Nick just didn't understand why everyone was so hell-bent  
on him junking his lawn mower. He was all set to get a  
second opinion when he realized he just had enough time for  
a quickie haircut before he had to clean up for the block  
party.  
  
The party didn't start until four o'clock, but Nick cut it  
close by getting home at three-thirty. His haircut duly  
inspected and approved ("Now I'm not ashamed to appear in  
public with you," is how Nat delicately phrased it), he  
showered and put on clean shorts and tee shirt. He and Nat  
gathered up their contributions to the party (Weber Kettle  
grill pre-loaded with charcoal, a large pan of brownies,  
two lawn chairs and two rather nice ribeye steaks) and,  
together with Michelle in tow, trooped four houses down the  
block to Marge and Chet's house.  
  
Nick got one of the neighbors, Bob, to help set up the  
barricades. They arranged them across the two ends of the  
block, just off-center enough so late-comers could drive in  
to park in their driveways. It's a good thing there's not  
much traffic on our street, thought Nick. He was still  
slightly astonished people could just block off a street  
for a party.  
  
Soon there were about twenty families gathered at the  
Larsons' yard. Children of all ages ran up and down the  
street in giddy, excited packs, playing games only they  
understood. The adults stood around chatting, occasionally  
exerting parental authority by yelling at their respective  
kids. The keg was tapped, and the beer began to flow.  
  
Soon came the moment Nick had been inwardly dreading the  
whole week--Marge organized a softball game. Out in the  
street, bases were marked by paper plates weighed down with  
rocks. Nick borrowed an extra glove from Bob and was  
tentatively swinging a battered aluminum bat. Nat, who  
opted out because 'someone has to watch the baby,' smiled  
encouragingly and waved Michelle's tiny hand at him. Nick  
returned the smile weakly, then chugged the remainder of  
his beer and got a refill. If he was going to suck, dammit,  
he was going to have a good reason.  
  
By this time most of the ball players had also imbibed at  
least two cups of beer, and the co-ed game proceeded with  
hilarity and lots of insults for all involved. To his  
relief, Nick's team struck out before he had to reveal his  
inexperience at bat. When the team went out to the field,  
he hurried to right field, hoping that no ne would hit a  
ball in that direction and he'd just have to stand there,  
pretending to know what he was doing. Since the "field" was  
a combination of the street and some lawns it wasn't  
exactly regulation size, and the various obstacles--bushes  
and parked cars--made the game much more interesting. Nick  
managed to spend the rest of the first inning leaning  
against a parked Toyota, yelling insults at the opposing  
team and drinking beer.   
  
When he finally did get a turn at bat, he was ready. He had  
watched everyone else closely and had the steps memorized.  
"Bend your knees," he ticked off to himself, "wriggle a  
little, swing the bat two times, and wait for the pitch."  
He followed his mental checklist. The first ball whizzed  
past him to thunk into the catcher's mitt. "Steerike!"  
yelled Mike. Undeterred, he went through the motions again  
and much to his surprise, actually connected with the ball.  
He stood, astonished, watching it sail over the pitcher's  
head into center field while his teammates screamed, "Run,  
run, you idiot!"  
  
Nick dropped the bat, hared down to first base and pulled  
up.Nat was cheering wildly. He stood squarely on the paper  
plate that was first base, grinning from ear to ear.  
Another first! His first base hit! He decided softball was  
fun and that he'd try out for the precinct team next  
spring.   
  
The game seesawed back and forth--the sides were evenly  
lousy--for seven innings. They finally quit, not because  
anyone had won the game (they lost count of the score  
somewhere in the fourth inning) but because it was  
six-thirty and time to barbecue.  
  
Nick wandered over to the picnic table where the community  
goodies were displayed and filled a paper plate with taco  
chips, salsa, and veggies and dip. Two yards down, a  
volleyball game was still in full swing, the ground around  
the net poles littered with half-filled beer cups waiting  
for their owners to reclaim them between points. Munching,  
he went over to where Nat was watching the coals in the  
Weber. "Want me to cook?" he asked.  
  
"No, you hold Michelle for a while. I'll do the steaks."  
Nat poked at the coals with the tongs. "I think the coals  
are ready." She laid the steaks on the grill. "So, you  
survived softball, eh?"  
  
"Piece of cake," he grinned. "I only got hit by a ball  
twice, and I got one single and two doubles. Not bad for a  
beginner."  
  
He sat back in his lawn chair with Michelle sleeping in his  
lap, chatting amiably with the neighbors and watching Nat  
cook. She was right--block parties were fun.  
  
  
  
Sticky Wickets, Part 03/03  
by Nancy Kaminski  
  
Saturday Evening  
  
As the neighbors ate their dinners and socialized,  
the sun slipped down in the sky. Citronella candles  
were lit to hold the mosquitoes at bay. The street  
lights lit themselves one by one and the stars began  
to appear as dusk darkened into night. The children  
played "Starlight, Moonlight," dodging from bush to  
tree in the game of nocturnal tag.  
  
It had been dark for a half hour, and Nick was deep  
in a discussion with Mike and Bob on his favorite topic,  
lawn mower maintenance. Nick was still baby-minding.  
He held Michelle on his shoulder, patting her bottom and  
swaying gently back and forth while she kept up a constant  
babble. The men had wandered two doors down from the  
main gathering to look at Bob's new Snapper mower.  
  
Nick looked at it morosely and said, "Everyone wants me  
to get rid of mine, but I'm sure I can fix it. The damn  
thing keeps stalling out on me, no matter what I do."  
He took a swallow of beer.  
  
Bob shook his head. "They're right. Just junk it. Townsend  
had it in the shop every other week and it never worked  
right." Townsend was the man Nick had bought the house  
from, and all the yard equipment had been included in the  
deal. "Now take this baby here..." Bob's voice trailed off  
as he looked over Nick's shoulder. "Jesus Christ on a  
bicycle," he breathed. "Get a load of her."  
  
Nick turned around and the blood froze in his veins. Coming  
towards them, very familiar wine bottles in hand, were  
Lacroix and Janette. Nick uttered a curse in a language not  
commonly spoken in the last 800 years. Mike and Bob stared  
at him and then turned their attention back to the exotic  
couple.  
  
"Who are they? Do you know them?" Bob asked Nick.  
  
There was a pause while Nick considered his answer.  
Finally, he said weakly, "Yeah. They're...family. Distant  
family."  
  
Janette undulated up to Nick and threw her arms around his  
neck. "Nicolas! Darling!" she cooed and proceeded to kiss  
him very comprehensively on the mouth. When he managed to  
detach her, she stroked his cheek and scolded, "It has been  
far too long since you called on me. Almost a year!" She  
transferred her attention to Michelle. "And this is the  
little one? Why, Nicolas, she looks just like you! May I?"  
She held out her arms.  
  
Behind her, Lacroix said, "Yes, Nicholas. I am very  
disappointed you didn't tell us about this important event.  
We found out from one of your coworkers just the other day  
and came to offer our congratulations."  
  
By this time, several other partygoers had wandered over in  
curiosity. Janette and Lacroix stood out like peacocks  
among sparrows. In stark contrast to the Saturday-casual  
shorts and tee-shirts everyone else wore, they looked ready  
for a garden party at the Rockefellers. Janette was attired  
in black raw silk skin-tight pants, a cream-colored silk  
bustier and soft leather Italian sandals. Her hair was  
elegantly done up in an elaborate style and her makeup was  
flawless. Lacroix, in deference to the summer weather, wore  
a steel gray linen suit instead of his customary black,  
with a collarless black silk shirt. Belatedly, Nick saw  
that he carried several small brightly-wrapped packages  
under his arm in addition to the wine bottle.  
  
Nick transferred his attention back to Janette. She smiled  
sweetly and made as if to take Michelle from him. He  
scowled and then reluctantly handed his daughter to her.  
"Be careful. She's very fragile."  
  
"Oh, Nicolas, you know how I love to mother young things."  
She cradled Michelle in her arms, cooing nonsense words  
in her ear.  
  
Bob nudged Nick in the ribs. "So, are you going to  
introduce us?" His attention was on the baby, and,  
incidentally, Janette's cleavage.  
  
"Yes, Nicholas, do introduce us to your new friends."  
Lacroix's voice sounded at once amused and just the  
teensiest bit disdainful.  
  
Nick glared at him. He introduced the seven people  
clustered around. "This is my cousin, Janette DuCharme, and  
my..." he paused and tried to think of a suitable  
relationship, "...uncle, Lucien Lacroix."  
  
"How very charming to meet you, ladies and gentlemen,"  
Lacroix said. "Nicholas and I used to be very close,  
weren't we, Nicholas? But alas, as he grows older," Nick  
gave him another dirty look, "we seem to have drifted  
apart. Until we heard of the blessed event, of course. I  
thought a reunion was indicated." He indicated the wrapped  
packages. "We came to offer our congratulations and bring  
some gifts for the little one."  
  
Natalie had caught sight of Nick's 'relatives,' excused  
herself from the conversation and hurried over. She looked  
Janette in the eye and said, "I think she needs changing.  
I'll take her," and took Michelle from Janette's embrace.  
They smiled tightly at each other. Nat put her unoccupied  
arm possessively around Nick's waist.  
  
Lacroix interrupted the awkward silence. "We were just  
taking the opportunity to extend our warmest wishes for the  
child, my dear doctor. Allow us to present our gifts." He  
handed a small box to Nick.  
  
"That's from me," Janette told them.  
  
Nick unwrapped the colorful paper to reveal a jewelry box.  
Opening it, he found a silver chain with a single large  
black pearl gleaming against the white satin lining.  
  
"I will give her a new pearl every birthday. A charming  
Victorian custom, well worth resurrecting, non? When she  
is twenty-one, she will have a suitable necklace for a  
beautiful young lady."  
  
Nat fingered the pearl, gleaming dully in the streetlights.  
"Oh, Janette, it's beautiful. Thank you." She felt  
momentarily ashamed of her earlier hostility. "Would you  
like to hold her again?" she offered.  
  
Janette gravely accepted the baby into her arms. Michelle  
beamed up at her and waved her arms.  
  
"And this is from me." Lacroix handed Nick an  
irregularly-shaped package, tied with pink ribbon.  
  
Nick plucked the ribbon loose and the paper unfolded,  
revealing a stuffed animal. He picked it up. It was medium  
brown with a plush, squishy body. Little ears stood up from  
the head. A mouse? On closer inspection he saw it had soft  
plush wings, beady black eyes and a mouthful of pointed  
felt teeth.  
  
"Read the tag," Lacroix said, a small smile tugging at  
his lips.  
  
Nick located the small white tag sewn to the toy. "The  
South American Wildlife Collection," he read. "Nicholas  
the Vampire Bat. Non-toxic, hand washable. Safe for  
children of all ages." He looked at Lacroix and started  
to laugh.  
  
Between gasps for breath he said, "Look, Nat...it's a  
bat...a vampire bat...named Nicholas." She stared at  
im in disbelief and then started laughing as well.  
Their neighbors looked mystified.  
  
All Nick could choke out was "Old family joke." Lacroix  
was smiling broadly, and Janette was grinning, too.  
Nick jiggled the toy in Michelle's face. "Look, Michelle,  
it's Daddy." This set off more gales of laughter.  
  
When they finally settled down, Nat asked, "Where ever  
did you find that?"  
  
Lacroix merely raised an eyebrow. "I have my sources."  
Then he relented. "There were new exhibits at the  
Natural History Museum I wished to see, and before I  
left, I visited the gift shop. For some reason, I  
couldn't resist it." He pulled an envelope out of his  
inner breast pocket and handed it to Nick. "However,  
this is the real gift."  
  
Nick opened the envelope, Nat craning her head to see.  
He removed a legal-size document written in French.  
"What is it?" she asked.  
  
Nick's jaw dropped as he read the document. "No!  
Absolutely not!" he growled at Lacroix. Suddenly  
aware of all the people listening in with avid curiosity,  
he said, "Excuse us for a moment," and moved down  
the driveway, Lacroix, Janette and Nat trailing behind.  
  
He lowered his voice. "Don't you think I can provide  
for my own family?" he hissed.  
  
Nat said, "What is it? Tell me!"  
  
Nick looked at her and said, "It's the deed to the  
villa in Monte Carlo. He's given her a twenty room  
villa and paid the taxes and upkeep for the next fifty  
years." He looked at Lacroix again. "Absolutely not!"  
He shoved the paper back into Lacroix's hands.  
  
"Why ever not, Nicholas? I haven't used it in twenty  
years. I don't much care for Monte Carlo any more--the  
tone has gone down with the current crop of nobility,  
and it is far too sunny for my tastes. She'll enjoy  
it when she's old enough." He sounded very reasonable.  
  
"I can give her that, assuming I want to introduce her  
to that life. No!" Nick folded his arms and glared at  
his former master.  
  
Nat was looking at the document, now crumpled in  
Lacroix's hand. "Is it on the beach?" she asked  
wistfully.  
  
"Oh yes. It has a private beach, as a matter of fact.  
And a swimming pool. It is quite pleasant, really."  
  
"No!" Nick asserted again.  
  
"You're going to be tiresome about this, aren't you,  
Nicholas? Quelle surprise." Lacroix sighed theatrically  
and gazed around him abstractedly. His eyes lit on  
something in the adjoining yard, and the corner of  
his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "I have an idea.  
The villa is in Monte Carlo, home of a very elegant  
gambling establishment. Are you game for a little wager,  
in the spirit of the place?"  
  
Nick said suspiciously, "What do you have in mind?"  
  
"If I win, you accept the gift. If you win, I take it back.  
An elegant solution to our dilemma."  
  
"Win what game?"  
  
Lacroix gestured to the next yard, where wire hoops  
gleamed faintly in the streetlights. "Croquet."  
  
  
  
Silence fell as Nick considered Lacroix's proposition.  
Lacroix stared at him challengingly. Nat said wonderingly,  
"You're going to play croquet for a villa? With a kid's  
set on a bumpy lawn?" She turned to Janette. "How much is  
this place worth, anyway?"  
  
Janette shrugged expressively. "Seven, eight millions? I  
do not know. It never seemed to matter. It is just  
someplace we go when we are bored with Paris." She turned  
her attention back to the baby. "You would love it, little  
one. The gardeners are such delicious young men..." she  
cooed as she rocked Michelle.  
  
Nat turned to Nick. "Do it," she urged him, her face lit  
up with the sheer romance of the idea. Just imagine, a  
fortune won or lost on the outcome of a trivial game! It  
was just like those trashy Regency romance novels Grace  
liked to read on her lunch hour, the ones in which young  
noblemen lost vast estates on the turn of a card. (At  
least, that's what the blurbs on the back covers said.  
Natalie wouldn't actually read one of them, of course. She  
had her pride.)  
  
Belatedly Nat realized that Nick would have to lose. She  
weighed the prospect of a little short-term connubial angst  
against luxurious, sun-filled vacations. Practicality won  
out--she was rooting for Lacroix.  
  
"You're on, Lacroix," Nick returned Lacroix's stare. "A few  
ground rules, though. We play with the light-colored balls  
to even out the vision, uh, discrepancies. And you don't  
use any other 'unusual talents.' Regular backyard rules.  
Agreed?"  
  
"Agreed. Shall we?" Lacroix gestured towards the adjoining  
lawn.  
  
The four of them moved off to examine the field of  
challenge, trailed by a gaggle of curious spectators. The  
croquet mallets and balls were dented and chipped with much  
use, and the wickets were no longer smooth hoops--most  
looked like they had been bent and re-bent many times. At  
least the lawn was mostly flat, although the grass was  
shaggy, and there were enough bumps to make sure that a  
shot probably wouldn't go exactly where you wanted it. A  
petunia bed marked one side of the court, and the street  
the other.  
  
"Nick," Nat whispered, tugging on his shirt sleeve. "Have  
you ever played croquet before? You told me you never  
played any sports!"  
  
He smiled at her reassuringly and leaned over to whisper  
back in her ear. It wouldn't do for anyone to hear where he  
learned this particular game. "Croquet was all the rage in  
the late 1800s. We attended lots of garden parties that  
included 'moonlight croquet.' And Lacroix used to hang out  
with the Algonquin Roundtable crowd in the '30s--they were  
absolutely vicious players. Can you imagine him trading  
barbs with Dorothy Parker while knocking her ball out of  
bounds? It was quite a sight."  
  
"Can you beat him?" She secretly hoped not, and then felt  
a twinge of disloyalty, which she banished by thinking of  
romantic Mediterranean nights.  
  
"Maybe." He looked momentarily doubtful. "I haven't played  
for about 100 years, but the lawn's lousy enough to even  
that out." Nick seemed to be beginning to forget about his  
wounded pride and get into the prospect of possibly beating  
Lacroix at something. Although they had reached a detente  
of sorts (Lacroix was no longer threatening to kill either  
him or Nat) they still relished the opportunity to puncture  
each other's ego one way or another. Unfortunately, Lacroix  
had done most of the puncturing in their last few meetings.  
  
Lacroix selected the yellow ball and Nick the orange one.  
"You're first," Nick said graciously.  
  
"But of course, Nicholas--yellow is always before orange.  
Thank you for the reminder. I do believe I remember the  
rules." Lacroix carefully positioned the wooden ball one  
mallet-length in front of the first wicket. He lined up  
the shot and gave the ball a smart whack. It shot cleanly  
through the two wickets and rolled to a stop five feet  
beyond the second wicket. His first bonus shot put his ball  
neatly in position to go through the number three wicket,  
and the second bonus shot put him through. Lacroix smiled a  
small, self-satisfied smile and said, "Yet another bonus  
shot, I believe." He angled the ball towards the fourth  
wicket. It stopped, perfectly placed for an easy trip  
through. "Your turn." Lacroix turned to watch Nick with  
an expectant air.  
  
A look of determination and concentration on his face,  
Nick duplicated Lacroix's feat, his ball following  
practically the same path. The orange ball bumped to a  
halt a little less than one foot behind Lacroix's yellow  
one.  
  
"Well-placed, Nicholas," Lacroix commented. "For me, that  
is." Instead of hitting his ball through the fourth wicket,  
he sent it backwards towards Nick's hapless ball. It hit  
with a loud 'thwock.' The yellow ball caromed off to the  
left. "Roquet, Nicholas. Two bonus strokes for me," he  
announced with a certain amount of relish. Nick glared at  
Lacroix's ball, as if he could send it off course through  
sheer force of will.  
  
Lacroix's ball had moved only two feet after hitting Nick's  
ball. Sending it through the fourth wicket was easy, and  
he acquired another bonus stroke.  
  
And so the game went. Nick would almost catch Lacroix,  
who would then casually knock his ball off course and gain  
bonus strokes in the process. Nick did manage one roquet,  
but on his second bonus stroke, his ball hit a bump in the  
lawn and bounced into the petunia bed. Lacroix's ball  
never seemed to hit a bump, of course. Each shot went  
precisely where it was aimed.  
  
Nat and Janette had ensconced themselves in lawn chairs on  
the sidelines. "Oh damn," Nat said insincerely. "It looks  
like Nick's losing."  
  
Janette smiled and elegantly recrossed her legs. "You'll  
like the bath." She delicately sipped the contents of her  
wine bottle from a blue plastic beer cup. "I ordered a very  
large spa installed last year. Used creatively, that will  
serve to soothe anyone's injured pride. Even someone as  
determined to be insulted as Nicolas."  
  
"I'll make good use of it, don't worry." Nat made an  
encouraging noise as Nick's ball was once again knocked  
off the court. "In fact, I think I'll have to do a lot  
of soothing this evening."  
  
"Every dark cloud has a silver lining, non?" The two  
women smiled at each other, in perfect accord.  
  
A smattering of applause broke out from the spectators as  
Lacroix's final shot made a beeline through the last two  
wickets and hit the stake so hard it vibrated for a moment.  
Lacroix bowed slightly to his audience, acknowledging  
the applause. Nick's ball was still three wickets behind.  
  
Lacroix put down his mallet, reached into his inside  
breast pocket and pulled out the deed. He carefully  
smoothed it out and then, looking at Nick, silently held  
it up, his eyebrow raised.  
  
Nick approached Lacroix and stood there, just looking  
at him. He seemed to be contemplating another use for  
the finishing stake. "Oh oh, time to play referee,"  
Nat said to Janette. She stood up and went to join Nick,  
Michelle in her arms.  
  
"Nice try, darling," she said brightly. "We'll have to  
have a rematch some time." She turned to Lacroix. "Thank  
you very much for the lovely gifts. I'm sure Michelle  
will enjoy them all--as will we, right, Nick?" She nudged  
him none too gently in the ribs. "Right, Nick?"  
  
Nick sighed, reluctantly nodded his assent and took  
the deed. "Don't think you can just drop in when we're  
there. Call first."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of imposing on you or your family."  
Lacroix held out his arms. "Now that that is all settled,  
may I hold the child for a moment?"  
  
Nat smiled, and handing Michelle to him said, "Of  
course, 'Grandpa.'"  
  
Lacroix favored Nat with his patented I-am-a-Master-  
Vampire-Don't Mess-With-Me icy stare, then took the  
baby. He held her up in front of him, examining her like  
he was inspecting her for flaws. She was awake, having  
slept all afternoon. She looked at him with a serious  
expression on her face, then reached out and grabbed his  
nose with her tiny hand and giggled.  
  
"There is no doubt this is Nicholas' child." Lacroix's  
oice sounded a bit nasal. "She is already trying to  
aggravate me." He shifted her so her hand detached from  
his nose. He held her in his arms and stared down into  
her bright eyes. His look softened. He turned away from  
Nick and Nat, tickled her tummy and began murmuring  
something.  
  
Nat strained her ears to catch his words, but they made  
no sense to her. She looked at Nick and whispered,  
"What's he saying?"  
  
Nick listened carefully for a moment, then had to smile.  
"I think it's the Latin equivalent of 'who's a cute  
widdle bunnykins,' or something to that effect."  
  
Janette's voice came from behind them. "I always told  
you he had a sentimental streak in him, Nicolas. You  
just refused to believe me."  
  
"He hides it well." Nick raised his voice. "Looks like  
the party is breaking up, Lacroix." People were drifting  
off to their homes, calling good-nights to each other.  
"It's getting late. Time for us to get our stuff and  
go home." He reclaimed Michelle and they headed back  
to the Larsons' yard.  
  
Marge bustled up to Nick out of the darkness and said,  
"Dear, don't forget to take down the barricades. And  
take this. Here." She handed him a Tupperware container.  
"This is for the nice man who delivered them. Make sure  
he gets it, will you?" She turned to Lacroix and Janette.  
"It was so nice to meet Nick's relatives. You should  
come by more often. I'll remind him to invite you to our  
next get-together. Do you need any Tupperware? We're  
having a Tupperware party next Saturday at my house.  
It's so handy for storing just about anything, don't you  
think? Don't forget!" She spotted someone else across  
the yard and zoomed off again, calling, "Cheryl..."  
  
They stood and looked after her, momentarily stunned  
into silence by the tiny whirlwind. "That was Marge."  
Nick said unneccessarily. He peeked in the container  
she had pressed into his hands. Cookies. Of course.  
  
"So sorry you had to lose--again," Lacroix said, unable  
to hide his satisfaction. "Perhaps a rematch could be  
arranged. But we must fly now--figuratively, not literally.  
We drove," he added at Nick's alarmed look. "I have  
a radio show to put on."  
  
"And I have a club to run," Janette said. She kissed Nick.  
"Come by and see me, cher. Once in a while, at least.  
Bring the child." She looked at Natalie. "And Natalie,  
of course."  
  
Nick and Nat watched them walk down the street to Lacroix's  
Mercedes, parked at the end of the block. Nat tightened  
her arm around Nick's waist. "I'm sorry you lost, but  
I'm not sorry you lost, if you know what I mean." She  
sighed. "A villa in Monte Carlo! It's so romantic, Nick!"  
  
"I know. Why do you think I threw the game?" He laughed at  
her astonished look. "I used to beat the pants off him at  
croquet every time we played. It drove him crazy.He must  
have thought that being mortal would interfere with my game  
and he'd finally get a chance to win."  
  
Nat said suspiciously, "Are you sure? You're not just  
saying this to salvage your pride, are you?"  
  
Nick looked hurt. "Remember, I was an actor once or twice  
in the past. I was acting up a storm back there." He smiled  
at her. "I must have been very convincing--he bought the  
whole act! I decided to let him win when I saw how much you  
wanted the villa. Anyway, I already made my point by making  
such a fuss."  
  
"Why, you sneaky so-and-so!" She smacked him in the arm.  
"And here I thought I would have to make you forget your  
disappointment by making mad, passionate love to you all  
night!"  
  
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I do need consoling.  
Letting Lacroix win was a severe blow to my pride. I  
think I'll need very comprehensive consoling when we get  
home..." He assumed a woebegone expression.  
  
"Well, I guess that can be arranged." Nat sighed again.  
"The things I do for real estate."  
  
"What do you mean?! The things I do for real estate...!"  
  
They disappeared giggling into the dark.  
  
  
The End  
  
=========================================  
Nancy Kaminski--Cousin, UFer, Knightie, N&NPacker  
nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net  
Minneapolis, Minnesota  
=========================================  
  
  
  



End file.
